


If the Morning Light Don't Steal Our Souls

by marauders_groupie



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Dreamsharing, F/M, Soulmates, don't do drugs kids, idk?, there is a joint mentioned but like a really bad way of coping w things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 15:38:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4966585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marauders_groupie/pseuds/marauders_groupie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke starts seeing the boy in her dreams on her eleventh birthday and it is because she feels free with him that she knows he could never be real. </p><p>A (sort of) soulmates AU.</p><p>**</p><p>inspired by a <a href="http://jewist.tumblr.com/post/69006953479/the-worst-is-having-a-dream-where-someone-loves">tumblr post</a>: "the worst is having a dream where someone loves you and you can practically feel them touching you and it feels so real and then you wake up and it’s like the life is being sucked out of you and the happiness just drains out of your body and you feel empty again"</p>
            </blockquote>





	If the Morning Light Don't Steal Our Souls

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Halsey's Empty Gold which you should all go listen to because it is all that is right with the world.

Clarke starts seeing the boy in her dreams on her eleventh birthday. A birthday should be something to remember for months to come – a moment of electric bliss that keeps you going through long motions.

Her birthday was horrible, though, and she took the first chance to slip away to her room. The canopy over her bed flutters with wind coming through the windows and she doesn’t bother with the lights. She stopped believing in monsters long ago.

It doesn’t take her a long time to fall asleep and when she does, she dreams of a clear, vast field she can’t see the end to. It’s spring, it has got to be spring because the air smells like blooming flowers and dew and honey. The scene is crooked, twisted somehow and she’s running here, tripping over stones and skipping the creek.

Because she feels free, she knows that it’s a dream.

She sees the boy when she stops under an oak tree, its branches wide and thick – she’s climbing up before she knows she’s doing it, but the tree is sturdy under her feet and her hands find places to cling to without trying.

He’s lying on the topmost branch, arms and legs waving in the air and face pressed to the branch. She can’t see his face, it’s there but her eyes avoid focusing on it – dreamlike, but somehow she knows he has freckles. That’s the first thing she knows. The second is that he is smiling at her lazily, and then she knows it’s not spring but summer and heat clings to her skin and pools in her collarbone.

She can’t hear her voice, but she knows she is speaking. “Hi.”

The boy raises a hand in wave and it promptly falls back down, swaying in the air.

“What’s your name?”

He lifts his head up and she feels the weight of his stare on her, but he doesn’t speak. She knows he doesn’t – she would have remembered his name. For some reason, it feels like it should be a unique one.

Her skin is warm and the air around her is cold when she wakes up, snapping out of the dream, and she doesn’t give it a second thought for a very long time.

 

* * *

 

The second time she sees him, she is thirteen and her soccer team lost a match. She is a perfectionist, that’s what they tell her. Almost obsessed with doing the best she can, up to the point where no one can stand her if they lose.

Her team is right, of course, and she knows it – but it still hurts, a pang of hurt she can’t quite get rid of. She falls back on her bed, says she’s not hungry despite her stomach growling, and she forces herself to fall asleep – if only so she doesn’t have to be awake anymore.

This time, she’s on the field where they lost to the other team but there is no cheering parents or referees blowing whistles. Instead, it’s quiet, only cicadas breaking the silence and even then it doesn’t matter. White noise, static in her ears as she sits cross-legged in the middle of the field. She can feel the grass under her palms, plucks it.

A ball comes seemingly out of nowhere and she catches it with a skilled grip, looking up.

He’s standing by the goalpost, and she swears he’s grinning even if his face hasn’t gained any clarity. It’s disconcerting how she even knows it’s him in the first place, two years have passed and she hadn’t thought of it since.

But she _feels_. She feels, even if she can’t see no matter how much her brow furrows, and the tingling in her fingertips alerts her to his presence. Clarke isn’t sure who he is, doesn’t even know his name – she knows that you probably saw the person you dream of in reality at least once but his face is blurry and it’s there but it isn’t there either, and she wonders if she is the exception to the rule.

Clarke, imagining people and bringing them to life in fields.

She throws the ball back and he thanks her with a raised hand. It’s just a dream and she lies back, damp grass soaking through her jersey. It’s sunset, or a sunrise – whichever it is, it creates red and orange lines on the blue backdrop of the sky.

When he joins her on the grass, so close that the hair on her arms stands up and it sends a shiver down her spine, they don’t speak. She wonders if dreams things speak – would he speak if she wanted him to?

“I’m Clarke.”

It’s like shouting in the wind, her words never even come out of her throat, and she sighs. She’d like him to speak. He’s just a dream thing, what can it hurt?

He doesn’t, however, and she knows she’s bound to wake up any moment now so she gets up, runs a few circles around the field and kicks the ball better than she’d kicked it during the actual match.

It’s a dream, she can be a soccer superstar.

“I know.”

She turns to look at him but he’s not there anymore. Nothing is there anymore. The grass is gone and the sky is gone and everything is fading to black –

The sun is rising high on the sky when she wakes up and she huffs, throwing the covers to the floor. She’ll have to show her face in school, no matter how much it might hurt.

 

* * *

 

She is sixteen, her heart is torn to pieces and her cheeks are wet. Once again, she falls asleep just to get away. When she sleeps, she dreams, and nothing hurts there.

The diner she finds herself in is old, checkered linoleum floors squeal under her feet and Elvis Presley’s voice is coming from the jukebox is in the corner.

When she sits down in a booth, there’s coffee and pancakes waiting for her. She doesn’t eat them. She knows about mythology and she knows better than to eat food offered to her in her dreams. Not that she’d die, not that there is anything particularly exciting waiting for her if she keeps on living, but she’d rather get the chance to discover it.

Finn’s name drifts to her ears and she turns around. There is no one there but her stomach plummets all the same and she eyes the coffee, contemplating whether it would hurt to try it.

“You can, you know?”

When she looks up this time she can see his freckles, his dark curls and his brown eyes. He is a dream thing, certainly, but she hadn’t seen him in a long time and now it feels like she’d been missing a friend – suddenly, tempestuously – a friend she forgot about, but the longing is back.

She knows him and she doesn’t know him. He is hers and she is his and they are one and the same, and he probably doesn’t exist but – she does.

Her voice is sharper than she’d intended. She hears it, this time around. “I can what?”

He nods to the mug in front of her and her mind supplies information; it’s red and chipped. “You can drink it.”

“I would’ve drunk it anyways,” she rolls her eyes but snakes her fingers around it. It’s warm and comforting, the porcelain solid under her touch and it grounds her. The world isn’t fuzzy and crooked, it feels real but it’s a bubble bound to burst any second now.

The coffee is bitter and sweet at the same time. Clarke just goes with it, it’s a dream.

Over time, she realized that what she was doing is called lucid dreaming. She can control it up to a certain point. The only thing puzzling her is why he’s always there.

Because he has been there for quite a while now, his presence in her dreams growing more frequent until she dreams of him – with him - almost every week. But this is the first time she’d seen his face, more than the freckles she can feel he has, and it’s weird and wonderful.

Thinking in dreams is funny. Clarke thought about her dreams being dreams while she was in them for a couple of times but that was usually followed by snapping awake. It’s not a habit, thinking, when she’s in dream places like fields and beaches and mountains and – diners, apparently.

She thinks about Finn now, staring at the dark liquid sloshing in the mug in front of her, and thinks about his face when he’d told her he loved her. They are sixteen, she should have known better than to believe it.

Raven’s eyes dark with fury when she finds them kissing under the bleachers and her handprint still burning on Clarke’s cheek. Night enveloping the town as she runs home, wearing nothing but a pale-blue dress and Finn’s varsity jacket.

He was kind, the first one not to ask her about money and privilege, but to tell her a corny joke and laugh when she replied with another one.

_“Not so bad, are you, Princess?”_

She wasn’t, she really wasn’t. She tried not to be. Some days were easier than the others, but she bit back her sarcasm and smiled instead – took the joint he offered, loosened up, questioned her ways in sake of supporting his.

The pain isn’t so bad here, Clarke realizes. It’s softer, duller, a constant ache that reminds her of the one person she doesn’t want to be reminded of, but it’s not so bad. This she can deal with.

She is sixteen, her cheeks are dry because she is here now, and she is wondering why the dream boy has an actual expression on his face. It’s soft, sympathetic, something about his eyes she can’t get the hang of.

He’s the best thing she’d ever dreamed, and she dreamed seeing New York’s skyline with her feet on the last floor of the tallest skyscraper, lights and magic on the streets below her. Clarke Griffin dreamt of great things.

But this boy is the best one.

“I don’t know your name,” she finally says. With time, her voice became louder, his became clearer – it’s a deep, husky baritone that reminds her of chocolate melting over fire and the way trees sway when a forest is caught in a sudden storm.

He’s a mixture of feelings and memories, things she’d brushed her fingertips along – his jaw is a wall covered in graffiti of fish with legs and cows that walk on two feet and criticize capitalism, the one near the library. His eyes are what she imagines a home in the north must feel like – the crackling of the fire in the fireplace, photos of your loved ones adorning the walls, red flannel shirts, yelling “Timber” and Earth shaking beneath your feet when the tree finally collapses.

His smile reminds her of summer, inexplicably, and his hands of the last boat people jumped into after Titanic crashed into the iceberg.

He is feelings, he is abstract and he exists only in her dreams. But he smiles when she asks him for a name, even though she should be the one to name him – he is hers, after all.

“Bellamy. My name is Bellamy.”

She wants to ask him what kind of a name is that but he is laughing, loud and booming, her ears ache and she startles herself awake.

It always feels like a punch to the gut to stop dreaming when she’s dreaming of him and she gets up, curls up on the windowsill and lights up the last joint Finn had given her. His name hurts less.

 

* * *

 

Bellamy, Bellamy, Bellamy.

She chants it before falling asleep, like that is going to bring him to her dreams but it must have worked. The club she finds herself in is loud and the people are nothing more than black shadows of constant, anxious movement around her. The songs don’t have lyrics, they are just fast and desperate and she feels only one word on her tongue – _lust_.

Bellamy is standing in the corner, a drink in hand, and he’s smirking at her like he’s just a guy and she’s just a girl.

His hands are rougher than she would’ve wanted them to be, scraping against her waist when she presses her lips to his – hungry and wanting. He is a dream thing, he can’t hurt like it hurt to see Finn lifting Raven onto a countertop, careless of Clarke standing there. Bellamy is a dream thing and he is hers, so she frowns when he backs away, a question in his eyes.

“You really want this?”

“I really want this.”

They don’t talk and it works for them. Her hands are fervent and her body is a desolate wasteland that knows only one person who took her and ruined her, and the worst is – she let him. She let Finn, she wanted him and he felt good.

Bellamy feels better and she thanks her mind for creating him because his fingers are skilled when he’s pushing her into the wall, blue and red lights flickering across his face to the beat of EDM, and she’s panting because this is rough and fast and all she wants is a release.

When she gets it, it’s not enough. It’s never enough in her dreams and it’s weird that she feels him so clearly but she does. She’s desperate and she’s aching and he takes the pain away.

Mostly, she is gasping for her last breath in the middle of the ocean. There is nothing but oblivion and she is choking on air and water and salt in her brow.

His neck tastes better than her tears and his chest is vibrating with a groan when he pushes into her.

“Faster.”

Faster and faster until they’ve both got their releases and they slump down to the floor. The scene around them shifts, they’re in a bedroom she can’t recognize – having never seen it, but there’s a bed and there’s a corkboard with pictures of historic figures pinned to it and it’s so fucking innocent compared to what they’ve just done.

She lets out a laugh. It’s wicked and it’s unnatural, she doesn’t recognize the cadence but this is dream Clarke. Dream Clarke fucks hot guys in clubs when her chest is vibrating from thrusts and music alike.

“Something funny?”

“This is,” she answers and finds that she doesn’t recognize her voice. Doesn’t recognize her clothes anymore because she’s in a pair of pajamas now, but she’d gotten better at this sort of dreaming lately – choosing the scenery, choosing what she looks like and what’s she wearing. This is not something she’d ever choose.

Bellamy sticks his tongue out at her, and he’s wearing a ratty t-shirt and a rattier pair of pants. “Don’t mock my bedroom.”

She lets that slide because – maybe it suits him. The blue curtains, the blue bedspread, fluorescent stars stuck to the ceiling over his bed and books. So many books, piled and stacked wherever she looks. A boy who is hungry for words. A girl who is hungry for touches.

She lets the comment slide because, yes, it suits him, and then she feels his hand around hers and he’s pulling her up to her feet. They’re wobbly, she’s sore and no, the quick fuck didn’t make her feel better. After all, she never could choose what to feel in dreams.

They fall back on his bed, curling up under the covers. The sheets smell like cinnamon and lavender, and she doesn’t even like it. When she scrunches up her nose, he lets out a chuckle, his body enveloping her until their respective edges are blurred and she thinks she may be melting into him.

“Cute,” he finally whispers, his finger tapping her nose.

“Careful, I’ll bite you.”

“Sure you will, Clarke.”

He rolls his eyes and she tucks herself into his side further, and then she’s up.

Clarke dreams of strangers sometimes, guys and girls who tell her how much they love her – how much they want to fuck her – how much they want it all, depending on the day she’s had. She dreams of them and it feels like something is missing when she wakes up, a deep longing in her chest as she remember that it wasn’t real. But she can’t control those dreams and they fade out soon enough.

She can, however, control the ones she has with Bellamy. It still means nothing when she’s woken up by her alarm clock blaring and she feels like someone ripped a hole in her chest.

 

* * *

 

She sees him again and again. Sometimes he’s laughing at her – other times, he’s laughing with her. She tells him about his day and he tells her about his. Clarke finds that she’s made him a sister, named her Octavia – of all things, Octavia – the name reminds her of the Roman Empire and women with steely gazes that could bring down kingdoms. She hates that she made his mom be dead, and now he has to take care of his little sister and knows he won’t be able to go to college.

He is a dream thing and, for the life of her, she doesn’t know why she wants someone to suffer so much.

 

* * *

 

She is eighteen when her father dies and she’s sobbing, curled into a ball in the middle of her bed and her mother is banging at her door. The two sleeping pills she took help, her mind wanders into blank nothingness and she is asleep.

This time she doesn’t even have to chant his name for him to appear because she knows what his bedroom looks like and he is there, reading on his bed.

When he sees her, he does exactly what Clarke wants everyone to do when they see her like this. He embraces her and begs her to tell him what’s wrong. He’s a good dream thing, she thinks between thinking about the headlights that startled her father into killing himself and between cannulas they stuck into her nose so she could breathe again.

“My dad is dead,” she tells him and wonders why she is doing it anyways. He’s a part of her subconscious, he ought to know. But she tells him because it’s easier.

It’s easier to talk about it when he’s holding her, when she feels a reassuring presence at her side. He is a dream, he is a dream but he is the realest thing right now – the edge of a steep cliff, the last border between life and oblivion.

“The funny thing is,” she’s pressing out in between sobs that tighten her throat and make breathing harder, “that you remember these stupid little things.”

She remembers the nurse’s crisp white uniform, a stray curl falling into the woman’s eyes. She remembers the green purse her mother had with her when she came to visit her. She remembers a cracked tile she fell on after they told her.

Clarke is falling to the floor and all she can think about is the cracked tile and the stained piece of wall in front of her. There is gaping black hole threatening to dissolve her into nothingness, dancing around in her chest but she still sees only the mundane.

It’s not funny, it’s revolting, but she still laughs because her tears dried out and now she’s just twitching in Bellamy’s arms.

“It’s going to be alright,” he tells her. “Not today, not tomorrow, but it _is_ going to be alright one day.”

His mother is dead. He is a dream thing (even if it doesn’t feel like that, not really) and he is her responsibility. It’s a sick and twisted backstory she made up for him and she hates herself for it.

Is it karma’s doing that her father is dead now?

They are two shipwrecks in the middle of his bed, the floor creaks when they move and the wind is slamming the doors somewhere down the road, but Clarke can’t feel anything and then she feels everything at once. The pain stops and begins again. There are no more tears she can spill and her stomach is curled into a vicious ball so she can only trembled and clench her fists whenever the pain gets worse.

She makes it through the night, somehow – Bellamy at her side, touching her and then moving away, whatever she needs at the moment. He knows her better than she knows herself and that’s the first time she wishes he were real.

He never felt like a dream thing. He felt like many real things - like the laughter that spills from your lips when you know you really, really shouldn’t laugh, like the burning sensation of kissing someone for the first time that shifts into pleasant heat that warms you to your toes. Like a friend, the one that you can call in the middle of the night and you know they’d be there.

He feels too real and she knows he isn’t so she just holds his hand, his calloused fingers laced with her soft ones, and she doesn’t let go until the morning comes.

The Universe, Clarke figures, gave her a break because this time, the fading is slower – she knows she’s about to leave and she has enough time to turn over to face him, a wistful smile tugging on her lips.

“Thank you.”

Bellamy just squeezes her hand and then he’s gone.

Her room is cold and she trembles as she makes her way to close the window. She hopes everything was a bad dream but then remembers the smell of disinfectant and the bright lights of the hospital and she knows it’s only wishful thinking.

One day, that’s going to kill her.

But today, she’s stronger than her pain.

 

* * *

 

Whenever it gets particularly bad, she imagines Bellamy is next to her. When she forgets her homework in her AP History class, she imagines his hand squeezing hers and telling her to fuck Mr. Kane because he’s a jerk.

The walls tremble around her as she makes her way down the hallway to the lunch, Wells already waiting for her in the canteen, and the world is fading to black as her heartbeats get louder and louder until there are no more human voices – just the thrumming of the blood in her veins. She thinks she’s dying, and then she imagines Bellamy again telling her to breathe.

She makes it through the week. Then a month passes by, the second follows, time flows until she’s throwing her graduation cap high into the air along with the rest of her class. She’s accepted into Harvard and there are so many plans that thrill and scare her at the same time, but she can do it.

Her father is a shadow on the field and she sees him because she wants to. She imagines him waving and she smiles at him. That’s all the goodbye she’s going to get, but it’s better. The day things get alright has come.

 

* * *

 

 

She dreams about Bellamy, or with Bellamy, throughout her college years. She dreams about/with him through med school and then, finally, she gets a job in a clinic in Boston and when she sees him that night, he is overjoyed.

It’s only natural that he would be so happy for her, but she still senses something underneath his façade – something that feels wrong, something that doesn’t quite add up.

She doesn’t ask him and he doesn’t tell.

On her fifth day on the job, her patient becomes violent and she is pressed against the wall with the man’s hands crushing her windpipe. She knows that this is the end, but she fights back all the same, kicks him in the shins, as relentless in her defense as he is in his decision to kill her.

Her mother’s face floats in front of her eyes, her vision already going dark – there’s not enough oxygen for her brain to work, the rational side of it supplies – and Abby is mouthing something but Clarke can’t hear. There is her dad, too, taste of strawberries on her tongue and wind. Wind. It’s always wind and strawberries and endless summers they spent with his parents in the south.

The last face she sees before everything goes dark is Wells’. He is laughing, relieved, at the first joke she’d cracked after he father died and she knows that he loves her – just as much as she loves him. He is bright and precious, but there is something missing.

She doesn’t know what it is until she opens her eyes again and Bellamy is standing over her.

“Clarke, I really need you to wake up – right now,” he urges, something pressing in his voice. He is distant and he is near and he is everywhere at the same time.

“I just got here,” she croaks out. It feels like floating and there is nothing but the blinding white light everywhere she looks. It’s fuzzy and soft and she doesn’t want to go back.

“Clarke, wake up, wake up _now_!”

When she comes to, she’s on the floor with a nurse – Harper - holding oxygen mask over her nose. It’s clear and wonderful and she’s gasping for it.

“We have no idea what happened,” Harper explains. “But Murphy found you and managed to wrestle the guy away.”

Clarke nods, hardly able to do anything else except for that now. It doesn’t feel like she almost died. Her heart is thrashing around her ribcage and she can _hear_ it, but there is oxygen and there is light and – she’s alive.

She promises the detective who comes over that she’ll talk to him in the morning and falls asleep as soon as her head touches her pillow. Strangely, she doesn’t dream – at least doesn’t remember it when she wakes up in the morning. Her body is in pain and she still finds it hard to talk but she is alive.

God, she is _alive_.

She feels like floating again but this time her feet are firmly on the ground and the sun is high in the sky, a promise of a beautiful day ahead.

Someone who isn’t Clarke wouldn’t go to work but she does. They don’t let her do any heavy lifting, hardly allow her to examine a couple of patients and she does give a statement to the detective. She remembers the man’s face, crazed eyes and foam coming out of his mouth – she knows people like him. Rejects of the society, long forgotten but too stubborn to die – thrashing and kicking wildly, much to everyone’s discomfort.

She doesn’t blame him. She doesn’t blame the little girl who nearly killed Wells because she was hungry, cold and the world didn’t care about orphans. She doesn’t blame anyone who is a victim – she just blames the world for making them into monsters, making them into people who did what they had to survive.

It isn’t right, she thinks as she walks down the hallway of the clinic, certain now more than ever that this was the right job. They can’t do much, maybe can’t do anything at all in the grand scheme of things but if they can help at least one person – that’s good.

She was sad and then she was angry, but Clarke has mostly always been too stubborn to die, too.

Someone is shouting in one of the examination rooms when she reaches the reception and Clarke exchanges a brief, worried, look with Harper.

“Clarke, you should stay,” Harper tells her. “Seriously.”

There was always a possibility that she would get attacked. She did. She’ll get through it.

Her voice is hoarse and raw, but she still presses out a firm “No” and strides further down the hall. She can almost make out the voices, form them into something that makes sense. Murphy is shouting too and Murphy somehow always gets stuck with the worst ones.

She clears her throat in the doorway, observing the situation. Murphy is backed into a wall by a tall man with dark, curly hair and fists clenched at his sides. He doesn’t look terribly frightened so Clarke figures they can get this under control.

“What seems to be the problem here?”

Murphy shoots the man a glare and starts speaking before the other can interject. “This – _gentleman_ ,” he hisses, “right here demands to know if we admitted any patients with injuries corresponding to attempted choking. Obviously, we didn’t-“

The rest of Murphy’s words, hisses, shouts – whatever they were, are silenced when the man turns around.

The planet stops spinning for a little bit. We are hurtling through time and space at a velocity too fast to comprehend and the gravity keeps our feet firmly planted to the ground but now and then, there are moments that disconnect you from the natural order of things.

So, yes, Earth stops spinning, the clock stops ticking for the briefest of seconds, and there is nothing but white noise in Clarke’s ears when she sees him in front of her.

The tree where she first saw him. Flash. The first time he told her a really good pun. Flash. The endless beach, just sand and sand and nothing else there, nothing in the world except for the two of them. Flash. His smile when she told him that things got better. Flash. His arms wrapped around her waist even though they couldn’t sleep. Flash. His eyes, peering into her own and his voice that keeps telling her to just-wake-up – _now_!

Flash. Flash. Flash. Everything. Nothing. Flash.

He’s looking at her like he can’t believe his eyes and she actually can’t believe hers. His hair is exactly the same, his expression is exactly the same – a slow, relieved smile, and she already mapped the smattering of the freckles across the bridge of his nose and his cheeks.

She bets that he still tastes like a small miracle, feels like a wish coming true and laughs like everything is going to be alright even when there’s an impending apocalypse.

Clarke knows these things from her dreams and she dares herself to think that this is a hallucination. But that’s the one dare she backs out on, with a smile on her face and so many things she wants to say now that he’s here.

“Bellamy-“

He nods, still unblinking, still unflinching, standing inches from Murphy and smiling at her like he didn’t even doubt that she was real for one second.

“Clarke.”

She doesn’t know how she crosses the few steps separating them, doesn’t know how her hands wind up on his neck or how his perfectly fit on her waist but she welcomes the heat seeping through her fingertips when he’s finally there, welcomes the electricity that comes with kissing him while smiling – and it’s messy and completely hopeless but they still don’t stop until they start laughing.

Murphy is gone and Clarke thinks that the rest of the world probably is, as well. She doesn’t mind. She’s got her one thing right here.

They don’t talk, it seems pointless now when they can look at each other and when they’re tangible in a way that they lacked – in a way that seemed impossible after you woke up and felt like nothing will ever feel good again because you remember being loved in your dreams but there is nothing when you wake up.

He fits. He fits wherever he stands, sits, thrusts, moves, kisses and touches. He fits between her legs, his head resting on her chest as he traces imaginary patterns into the skin of her thighs and she cards her fingers through his hair.

He fits because he is Bellamy and he’s brought her from the dead more times than she can count, and because he was the one who was always missing from her world.

They wonder how many years they could have had with each other, had they only dared to believe that their minds weren’t just playing on them, but there is one thing they don’t do. They don’t question it. They don’t bother understanding how it works, why they could see each other and help each other and feel each other. That is not important anymore, when it might have been the most important thing once.

“Welcome home,” she tells him. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Their lives led them to tragedies, their shoulders threatened to crash under the weight they never asked for but was still put upon them. The world was never fair, but it did do one thing right. One thing, and it was enough.

“Welcome home,” he smiles, voice barely louder than a whisper. “I never stopped looking.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, this just happened. I don't know what to tell you - I'm not in control of the muse, right? 
> 
> If you liked this, please remember the dynamic duo: kudos and comments - those are my faves and I love hearing what you think about my stuff! Thank you for taking the time to read and I hope you liked it! :)
> 
> ps. if you wanna hang out with me I'm right [here](http://marauders-groupie.tumblr.com) and i can totally be talked into all sorts of shit if you have cookies.


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